Chapter Three Sophie
Chapter Three
Sophie
The door shuts behind him, the click of the door deafening in the quiet apartment, and I wait until I can't hear his footsteps anymore before I allow myself to break.
I fold forward from my position on the couch, reach blindly, and drag the sage-green throw pillow to my face.
And I scream. I pause, gasping, feeling pain rippling through me. I charge up like Godzilla, dragging air into my lungs, and scream again. Again and again. Each scream is sharper and piercing. Then the screams give way to wailing sobs, muffled by my pillow, until my throat is tender.
It hurts. It burns.
The image of Paul and beautiful, perfect Elise loops in my mind, taunting and sickening me. My mind races picturing them together: kissing, her flawless body pressed against his, his hands gripping her perfect body. The pain shifts from ache to agony.
Elise.
His gorgeous, cancer-free coworker—the one I thought I was silly to even worry about.
How delusional and pathetic can I be?
I never thought Paul was capable of this, of hurting me like this.
My wonderful fiancé, who would rub my stomach when I had period cramps, who held my hair back when I got too drunk on my twenty-seventh birthday and was praying to the porcelain God for an hour, who held me on the entire flight to the Bahamas because I'm terrified of flying.
Never in our six years had I seen him even look at another woman like that, and now I feel bad, like I messed up and caused him to do this, because I didn't even notice that he was struggling.
He just seemed so strong, so confident that we would get through this together.
He held me as I allowed myself to cry, to panic—just for a second.
He wiped my tears, kissed the tracks, and told me everything would be okay.
Was he thinking about her as he did that? About how easy she was, and how I'm just full of difficulties and sickness and inconvenience?
Nurse Ruth's gentle warning about men leaving hammers around in my mind like a vicious taunt. During one of my last appointments, right after bloodwork, the kind and sweet older nurse had asked to speak to me.
◆◆◆
"Sophie, I just... I hate having this talk, but I just want to prepare you for something that sometimes happens after a cancer diagnosis," she began gently. Her eyes were kind, but her words carried weight. "Some partners... struggle. The fear—it can overwhelm them. And sometimes... they leave."
I blinked at her, surprised at her words, but not shaken. I shook my head and smiled, "I appreciate you telling me. Really, I do. But Paul isn't like that."
She tilted her head, studying me with that compassion that some nurses seem born with, and just smiled at me.
I felt bad about possibly hurting her feelings with my dismissal and reached out, taking her hand and squeezing it gently.
"Thank you for looking out for me. That means more than I can say. But Paul... he's my rock."
Her expression softened even more, and I thought I saw something like admiration flicker across her face, maybe it was pity. "Then you hold on to that, Sophie. Hope and love are powerful medicines."
◆◆◆
"Delusional," I choke out, feeling so stupid and naive. More tears slide down my cheeks as I clutch my head and pull in a choppy breath.
In for four, hold for four, out for six, hold for four; repeat...
The other night comes to mind. I remember looking at Paul's handsome face, smoothed by sleep, and just gazing at him in awe, in love.
I reached over and smoothed his blonde curls down, and he murmured my name in his sleep, reaching for me.
I cuddled up next to his side, and my last thought before falling asleep was about how lucky I was to have him—how he was going to stick by me and fight this.
That I wouldn't have to do this alone.
What a joke.
Everything tilts—the floor, the pictures on the wall, me. I can't catch my breath. I'm all alone. Shock hits, then sharpens into terror. Everything is falling apart, and I'm dying—I mean, literally, I'm dying. There are cells in my body that are trying to kill me, and I...
What do I even do now?
I spent six years building a life with someone, and it was ripped away in an instant.
I curl my fingers, staring at my light pink–painted nails as they dig into my knees, trying to grasp onto something steady. My heart is beating too fast—or too slow, I can't even tell. My throat feels like it's closing, and I swallow compulsively, trying to clear it to no avail.
Sophie, you are having a panic attack.
Okay, remember what Tess always says—what she's taught me: Sensation anchors.
Five things you can see.
My vintage lamp from that thrift store in Cambridge.
A coaster. A Marshmallow Fireside candle.
A blue tissue box. The... that damn stuffed lobster he bought me in Maine because I thought it was adorable.
I want to grab it and chuck it across the floor, punch it over and over again, but those stupid little soulless eyes look at me, and I can't. I can't even hurt a present from him, but he can decimate me and walk away clean.
My vision blurs, clears, then blurs again. I try to breathe in for four counts, out for six. I can only make it to three before my chest locks up.
Hot. I am hot. I drag the blanket off my lap and shove it away, watching as it falls to the floor. My hands find the edge of the coffee table, and I hold on like I might slide off the edge of the earth if I let go.
Paul was the first man who didn't disappoint me, who didn't hurt me, or who didn't try to stuff me into a box I didn't fit.
He accepted me as I am, the way my exes didn't, the way my father never did.
My father never even seemed to care if I lived or died, and somehow this feels more cruel than that.
At least I know where I stand with my father.
Paul acted as if he loved me, said he loved me.
He said we would face this together, and then he betrayed me.
Now I'm alone, battling cancer.
And I hate that I now feel like I was the problem, like I made him feel that I was entitled to his support and love. But, isn't that what marriage is about?
Over and over again, I've heard people say 50/50 is a myth—sometimes it's 60/40, sometimes it's 20/80—the point is teamwork, true partnership. Sometimes you have to carry more weight, and other times you have to lean on them and let them carry the load.
I just thought... that this would be the one time he would have to carry more of the load, so that I could just get through this—the surgery, the chemo, the radiation, the fear—and just focus on living, on surviving.
This isn't fair, the thought brings a fresh stream of angry tears.
Tess. I need to call Tess.
My breaths are coming in short, fast bursts as my heart slams against my ribs. I stand from the couch and immediately sit back down. The room tilts, and I have to stabilize myself with the arm of the couch.
I give myself thirty seconds and then stumble over to the kitchen table, where, only an hour ago, Paul and I sat down to plan out my treatment plan—as a team.
I had joked around with Karen about reality TV, unaware that my fiancé had been hiding a betrayal, and had been cheating on me for two months.
A sob tears its way from my throat, and my shaky fingers find the familiar contact in my phone.
"Hey, Soph," my sister's voice is like a balm on a burn. "Did you get everything scheduled?"
My throat clogs as I try to answer. All I can squeak out is, "Tess..."
She's alert instantly. "What happened?"
"He... he cheated," I choke out, my voice hitching as the tears fall fast and free. "He—he said he's been sleeping with his coworker... I don't... I can't... why..."
The silence from the other end of the line is heavy. After a couple of moments, I hear two deep inhales and exhales.
Oh, she’s angry.
"He's so lucky I'm across an ocean," she mutters, then resets, command voice slipping into big-sister mode. "Alright. Okay, Soph. You're having a panic attack. We've done this before, haven't we? And we always get through them. Feet on the floor?"
"Mhm..." is all I can get out through clenched teeth, my lips pressing together tightly.
"Good, kiddo," her voice softens a bit. "You're doing great. Hands?"
I look at my left hand. "Shaking."
"Perfect. They want to move? We'll give them a job. Go to the freezer. Ice pack, frozen peas, anything. Put it on your wrists. Move."
I stumble to the fridge, phone pinched to my shoulder, and open the freezer. I see the little bags of bananas for our morning smoothies, meticulously organized and labeled by day of the week. I have too many now. The thought stabs me for a second.
I grab one of his—the one marked for Saturday—and press it to one wrist, then the other. The cold shocks me, but it feels good.
"Okay..."
"Now look around. Five things you can see."
"Banana, the stove, cutting board, blender, toaster..." I walk to the dining room table, scattered with papers and my tablet from scheduling.
I place my hand on the cool, dark wood. I had found the table at a thrift store—real, sturdy wood, vintage and banged up, but with good bones.
I sanded and stained it myself after watching no less than twenty hours of YouTube videos to get the process down perfectly.
Our downstairs neighbor had a bunch of tools and graciously let me borrow his sander after I promised to take extra care of it.
I returned it cleaned and with banana bread, and he had told me I could borrow any tool, any time, as long as I paid in baked goods.
The memory makes me smile, a small comfort.
"Four things you can touch."
"Cold bananas... kitchen tile. My sweater. Dining table."
"Three you can hear."
"Fridge. A car outside. You."
"Two you can smell."
I take a deep breath through my nose and close my eyes. "Marshmallow candle. Laundry detergent."
"Okay. One thing you can taste."
I lick my lips, "Salt."
"Good. How do you feel?"